


Savor

by QuillFeathers



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Ageusia, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, Implied/Referenced Depression, M/M, Post-Blue Lions Route (Fire Emblem: Three Houses)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-19
Updated: 2019-12-19
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:42:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21859255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuillFeathers/pseuds/QuillFeathers
Summary: As prince Dimitri had been trained to recognize the tells of basic poisons as a child, sometimes through very mild exposure: the smell of Foxglove and other flowers, the tang of several different spider species' venom, the overwhelming acidity from a certain group of caterpillars when crushed, etcetera. He does not think it would be wise to mention that he had not lost his sense of smell and so therefore could still detect...some.“I think it is less of a vulnerability than you claim, considering I hid it so well.”This is of course very much also the incorrect thing to say.Two days before his birthday Dimitri tells Felix about his inability to taste. It doesn't go over well.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Felix Hugo Fraldarius
Comments: 15
Kudos: 205





	Savor

Dimitri is fourteen years old when his world burns—fourteen years old when he loses the taste for living.

He does not tell anyone. Why did it matter?

All the voices in his head agree it is not important.

So he does not taste the copper tang of the blood on his lips during his maiden battle or all his years alone, nor the rest of the war after that. Does not taste the salt in his own tears when he reaches for the Professor's hands. Does not taste any of the celebratory feast after they retake Fhirdiad, nor the much grander one when they win the war.

The secret survives all that, yet somehow it is only here: two days before his birthday, when Felix (having arrived at Fhirdiad the evening before) relays that the kitchen still needs confirmation of the menu for the day of, that this particular facade slips.

“It does not matter,” stated for what seems like the third time in an hour as Felix stands in his typical loss-of-patience stance, the one he almost inevitably always adopted when in this room (Dimitri's office).

“What do you mean? Did you even look at this?”

He looks up to find his adviser looking at him as opposed to said list that he was holding, and although the explanation has crept forward to the tip of Dimitri's tongue, for not the first time he swallows it down, “What do you want?” countered instead as he drops his gaze again.

The lack of an immediate reply is in fact just the time frame required for Felix to stalk closer, a hand obscuring the papers Dimitri is trying to focus on around the blurriness of his exhausted vision. “I know you are tired but it is not a hard question,” he urges.

_I will not be able to taste it anyway._

Dimitri does not realize he has spoken out loud, has finally spit it out, until the hand in front of him is withdrawn, a bewildered look on its owner's face.

“What do you mean?” repeated with a frown.

 _Ten years_. Dimitri thinks, raising a hand to cover his good eye, the dark a comfort as he explains. It's Felix...he can tell Felix...

In summary: Felix is furious.

The Duke of Fraldarius does not speak to his king for the rest of the day save for snapping, sometime later and just in literal passing of the doorway, that he is expected in Gilbert's office.

So Dimitri is scolded by Gilbert, and shortly after by Ingrid, the latter of which had not occurred so thoroughly since before his coronation. He of course cannot and does not fault Felix for immediately divulging the news to his closest knights, though it does hurt when Dedue merely quietly comments that he had wondered but had never asked because Dimitri had of course never said anything.

\--------

Felix's anger is in fact still simmering strong over supper the next evening.

Sylvain (having arrived that morning) had been making a valiant and terrible effort at lightening the mood around the angry, forceful stabbing of Felix's fork to the cooked flesh on his plate. Nothing had managed to deter the sour look that he had maintained all day.

“Seems to me that everything is figured out then,” Sylvain recaps. “Increased security at the stores is easy to explain given the time of year, Annette will look into mages skilled in detection, and if all else fails Felix here becomes official Food Taster.”

“Absolutely not,” Dimitri and Felix echo; exactly the reaction they were meant to give, which leaves Sylvain grinning at the successful incitation and Ingrid covering her mouth with her hand, the corner of Dedue's mouth even just barely twitching.

“See, no harm done,” Sylvain asserts, leaning forward with his elbows on the table. “I'm just disappointed that I put so much effort into choosing the wine for tomorrow. Still, I guess you'll just have to test what he's poured before Dimitri gives his toast, Felix, since you'll be sitting closest.”

This predictably earns him what is at least the third kick of the hour underneath the table from Ingrid.

“I am never telling you anything ever again,” Felix grumbles.

Sylvain points his fork at him across the table. “Please. You tell me everything.”

For some reason that makes Felix duck his head, refusing to rise to any other bait Sylvain dangles for the remainder of the meal.

Dimitri feels like he has missed a vital point.

\--------

It boils over a few hours later.

Dimitri throws open the door to his receiving room, and it's far from the first time that the hinges have carried the rebounded weight of someone's barely-concealed annoyance but he makes an effort to catch it before it hits the wall anyway. Felix is perched on the large windowsill on the other side of the room, illuminated by the night and several lit candles. His arms are already crossed in indignation, a leg swinging in impatience as he looks over at the sound of the door.

It’s much too late an hour to really be proper.

“Why would you not even tell Dedue about such a vulnerability?” is thrown across the room at Dimitri before the door is even shut.

“I am tired, Felix. Please do not be bitter.”

The swordsman scoffs, dropping gracefully from the ledge. As he stalks over Dimitri notices that he's dressed in few enough layers to suggest that he'd gone back to his own quarters before invading here.

Felix prods at his chest with a bare finger. “I have the right to be bitter. Someone could toss in the most vile tasting extract and you wouldn't notice.”

As prince Dimitri had been trained to recognize the tells of basic poisons as a child, sometimes through very mild exposure. The smell of Foxglove and other flowers, the tang of several different spider species' venom, the overwhelming acidity from a certain group of caterpillars when crushed, etcetera. He does not think it would be wise to mention that he had not lost his sense of smell and so therefore could still detect...some.

“I think it is less of a vulnerability than you claim, considering I hid it so well.”

This is of course very much also the incorrect thing to say. Felix grimaces up at him before stomping back to the window...feeling guilty? Dimitri sighs. He doesn't like that. They both despised suffusing salt into the years of wounds between them. It happened often anyway, but they were nonetheless always trying to heal. It was Dimitri’s own choice to keep his lack of taste to himself all those years, his own weakness—

“Because you had a death wish,” Felix supplies, the reflection off the pane of glass behind him assisting the strength of his accusing glare.

Dimitri takes a pair of steps further into the room but stops when Felix crosses his arms again. “I am sorry this has upset you so,” he sighs heavily.

Felix's sigh is even heavier, an echo of their earlier unification at dinner. The lines of his face soften into something, well, vulnerable, even as he taps a foot in irritation. “An apology would not do me much good if you were dead.”

Dimitri does not know what to say in the wake of those words or his expression, but maybe one isn't wanted; the searching gaze dropping instead to the bottle of wine that he had practically forgotten he had brought with him.

“It's a dry red, the one Sylvain chose. Do you want to test it for me?”

Narrowed eyes and more silence. They constantly share these awkward moments. Long weighted stretches of silence, the air saturated with known and yet unsaid things. Dimitri passes the bottle off and moves to the sofa against the wall to the left of the window, collapsing into it. Felix pours an amount somewhere between a proper volume to taste and half, swirling the liquid a moment before taking a swig.

“Good?”

“It's fine.”

And because Dimitri's cruelty seeps past his own self sometimes. “You know I mean the taste? Not if I need to call a healer?”

He sees the fingers around the stem of the glass tighten, watches the glass raise to a frown before it is dropped just shy of hard enough to spill onto the ledge. Dimitri automatically opens his mouth to apologize yet again, having no idea what Felix wants him to say—

Felix curls one hand around his arm, the other roughly sliding into his hair to tip his head back—

Dimitri tastes nothing—until Felix kisses him.

It tastes like longing and frustration and of more than a pinch of desperation, biting at his bottom lip when he reflexively inhales sharply, and even though he can't taste the fermented grapes his throat and chest still burn and it’s not just from the lingering drink.

“Don't tease me about being worried about you,” Felix bites again, this time verbally.

Dimitri’s train of thought restarts. Months of fleeting looks and color raised to fair skin at Sylvain's teasing, of all the long sparring sessions after they'd argued followed by easy familiarity and acceptance, of the even longer silent looks shared across rooms and of each passing _maybe_ in his head stored away in the wake of responsibility and rebuilding and politics and redemption.

The turning of Felix's shoulder, the first step to him likely throwing the door open as hard as he can—of them not speaking for a day and then perpetually rewinding to what they were both comfortable with—is halted by Dimitri reaching for the wrist attached to the hand that is still clenched onto his arm.

“Felix...”

Felix whirls around, facing him fully, teetering with the force of the spin and the anchor of Dimitri's grip, “I am tired of waiting for you, but Sylvain said...I don't even know if you know I am waiting.” His voice is slightly higher than normal, something that Dimitri has only ever heard when he is truly worked up, but then he takes a deep steadying inhale and it drops to something just above a whisper. “So now at least I've made myself clear. I...you know I have so much less patience than you, you idiot.”

Felix tacks on insults like Dimitri tacks on apologies.

There is usually a lot buried under them.

 _We should talk._ Dimitri thinks, but Felix's eyes are speaking of vulnerability again and since he is so poor at choosing the right words he reaches for a sort of even-footing instead. Reaches over to drain the rest of the wine from its glass and tugs Felix forward. And Felix follows. _He always follows_ chased by an odd childish exclamation of _he kissed me first_ chased by shivering to pieces at parted lips on his and the pull of Felix swallowing the wine, at the press of a tongue to the roof of his mouth and the heat of their breath and the alcohol. Dimitri's other hand slides up to Felix's waist, and Felix doesn't really have anywhere else to go at the insistence of closer except onto the sofa as well, legs sliding up to either side of Dimitri's thighs.

He is not supposed to be greedy. He is not supposed to be childish in wanting, asking for a newfound favorite food for every meal. But Felix is greedy enough for the both of them as the flavor of the kiss tips from savoring to devouring: raising up on his knees and demanding full clarification, pulling hair again, nails digging into skin where their hands are still clasped together.

Neither of them goes far when they part for a ragged breath, Dimitri daring to press their foreheads together. He feels a bit like his entire chest cavity wants to shake itself lose, heart and lungs vibrating from a much different adrenaline rush than he is accustomed too. A part of him still wants to push away, too, his next already-short inhale lodging itself in his throat, the simple act of breathing suddenly much too intimate. The hand at the back of his head has loosened into something much too tender, the thumb of the other running soothingly along his wrist as he feels himself tense.

“Stay,” brushes over his face, Felix's eyes fluttering closed, just holding himself in place.

Dimitri leans away just a fraction. “It is late, and tomorrow is a busy day.”

He expects a scowl. Instead he gets a soft, sweet affectionate smile that makes his ribcage stutter all over again.

“You’re hopeless,” Felix mutters, “it already _is_ tomorrow.”

Dimitri blinks, taking his turn at blushing a bit more than he already was. “Oh.”

“Happy birthday,” Felix whispers, starting to close the distance Dimitri had created, and Dimitri's head tilts forward at the promise of another kiss—another taste.

**Author's Note:**

> “Life isn't that sweet. That's why everyone wants sweet things.” - Yana Toboso
> 
> Sometimes you have to let yourself write a messy, weighted confession scene? 
> 
> As always, thank you for reading!
> 
> twitter: [@o3QuillFeathers](https://twitter.com/o3QuillFeathers)


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